Make Me A Witness
by Carrion's Comfort
Summary: Split-seconds can change years of beliefs


Title: Make Me A Witness  
  
Rating: PG (Very fluffy for me).  
  
Category: Angst/Romance, 3rd party angst  
  
Spoilers: Oblique references to 'A Free Agent', but nothing too obvious.  
  
Disclaimer: They're not mine. It took me 24 steps to admit that. I had to do the class twice  
  
Archive: Ask if you want it  
  
Summary: Split-seconds can change years of beliefs  
  
Notes: I apologise for the lack of updates for There But For The Grace Of You Go I, but the chapter I am at is extremely tricky. Just know that I have not given it up and I will continue. As for this, consider this my apology for the unremitting angst of 'Second-Rate'.  
  
1) Someone in some 'Alias' fic, named Devlin, Ben, so I appropriated it here. Necessary kudos to whomever named him  
  
2) Yes the title is of a Sarah McLachlan song, but it is no way a song-fic  
  
Oh and all my mistakes are my own since I am beta-less  
  
************************************  
  
It's strange what I find myself noticing, as I stare at their sleeping figures. All I hear running repeatedly through my overwrought brain is...'Michael's never been a cuddler.' In fact in all our years together, whenever he would sleep he would automatically roll away from me, and curl in on himself.  
  
Not with her though.  
  
Rita.  
  
Who isn't really 'Rita' but 'Sydney', a name I've heard and tried to ignore for close to two years now. A name I actually forced my Uncle to tell about even though he was pretty much violating National Security.  
  
I'm not making much sense am I?  
  
Sorry.  
  
Seeing the man you've loved for so many years declare his love for someone else so beautifully will do that to you, though.  
  
Lets start at the very beginning. A not-so very good place to start, but a necessary one, I'm afraid.  
  
Where am I?  
  
I'm currently located in Michael Vaughn's apartment, but more specifically, I'm hiding out in his bedroom.  
  
Right now that you think I'm a pervert, or just really pathetic -I'm still tossing up which I find more humiliating- I'd better backtrack a bit.  
  
I think a better question to have started with is 'who am I?' It's certainly a more illuminating one; well I'm Alice Sullivan. Thirty-one years old, IT troubleshooter galore, daughter of Daniel Sullivan, god-daughter to Ben Devlin and on-again, but mostly off-again girlfriend to Michael Vaughn.  
  
I guess the next question would be 'why am I hiding out in Michael's bathroom?' and I'll get to that, but first I should set the scene, and give you the Idiot's Guide to my history with him.  
  
We met at my Dad's fiftieth birthday party. Both our fathers had worked together at the CIA, and my dad had basically known Michael since he was born ...it's funny, it took me twenty-six years to meet him, but by the end of that party I was smitten.  
  
Frankly I don't think Michael was as smitten with me, but we spent time together (being CIA born and bred makes it rare for you to connect easily with 'civilians') and soon after began dating officially.  
  
Now I know I've said that knowing CIA life made it easier for us to 'bond -for want of a better word- but I hated my Dad's job when he was with 'the company', and I was never too fond of the fact that Michael had also 'gone into the family business'.  
  
I was vocal about it too. And that's where our first problem made itself known.  
  
But it wasn't too bad. In fact most of the time, things between us were great. And if I sometimes noticed Michael's smile was a little false, I tried my hardest not to think it was because of me, because of us.  
  
That's another things being a CIA brat teaches you; the fine art of denial. 'Don't worry, Dad is just on a business trip', 'Don't worry, Dad won't be in hospital for much longer', 'Don't worry, Michael is not going to give his whole life to the CIA', 'Don't worry, Michael loves you, he just has trouble saying the words.'  
  
Who knows how long we would have continued in this vein, maybe we might have even drifted into a marriage, but I'll never know, because as soon as Hurricane Sydney entered Michael's life, my days there were numbered.  
  
At first it was almost bizarre little things that I found myself getting really nervous about. This one still unnerves me, and I don't think I'll ever know why; in the lead up to Thanksgiving, actually for close to a month before it, I'd often find Michael staring at his father's watch, with this look of - I can only describe it as...awakening.  
  
And then the phone calls started.  
  
Those were the real death knell of our relationship. He was so different after each call. Everything about him was somehow in sharper focus; as if ... well ... as if he was finally the person he always had the potential to be.  
  
Pathetic aren't I? He stopped loving me -if he ever really did- close to two years ago, and I still wax lyrical about Michael.  
  
I tried really hard to ignore those seachanges in him, but it became too much, even for me.  
  
The proverbial straw was when he said her name in his sleep. His tone was so soft, so loving, I raced out of bed, and cried in the shower for an hour, knowing that in all our time together his voice had never held one iota of the tenderness, and just plain love that it did then.  
  
So I blamed his job, his coldness, his lack of commitment, anything but actually telling him the truth.he was in love with someone else, and one dream of her could evoke words I'd been longing to hear from our first year together.  
  
I won't go into my year sans Michael. I feel small enough without having to recount all the humiliating scenarios I devised, in which Michael would come back to me -sometimes crawling, sometimes sweeping me along with new passion- and we'd finally be happy the way I always believed we should have been, but the year passed, and I found myself still pining for him.  
  
My friends encouraged me to date, and sometimes I would, mainly to appease them, but Michael was still in my blood, and wore he was still in my heart.  
  
And then suddenly we were doing the Timewarp again. Minus any 'pelvic thrusting', and post-modern-neo-gothic-transvestites.  
  
It was my Dad's birthday, and he was there. Talking with my father. Occasionally I've had a sneaking suspicion that part of Michael's 'attraction' to me was my dad.  
  
.and.I really didn't mean it to come out sounding that way.  
  
What I meant was, that Michael tended to look towards my dad for guidance, especially since he was his father's best friend.  
  
I tried to stay away from him, honestly I did. I heard Vicky, my best friend, telling me that I was better off without him. I heard my sensible side saying not to put myself through the hell of the previous year.  
  
And I listened to those sensible voices; I did.....for a whole two seconds, and then I talked to him.  
  
He was wary of me, but then we started talking and he relaxed, almost. Michael's always had a slight reserve to him, which I thought was just his 'thing'. I suppose it is, except -from what I saw- when he's around Sydney ... naturally.  
  
When he said 'yes' to my half-asked question, I wanted to tell him to forget all about it. He looked so miserable, like he was betraying someone, like he was betraying himself ...which is actually pretty accurate, certainly with the last part.  
  
The redux of our relationship was laughable. We sat on opposite ends of the couch at any movie or game ... and let's not even talk about the 'physical intimacy' bit.  
  
Then Dad got sick, and suddenly Michael was more with me than he had been in a long time, but frankly in a totally depressing, asexual sort of way. And I decided then, that if that was all he could give me, then I could learn to be happy with that.  
  
Feminists around the world are rolling in their respective graves. I know that. But who's ever sensible or even sane when it comes to love.  
  
Not me.  
  
Not Michael certainly.  
  
And judging by today, I don't think even Sydney Bristow is.  
  
When Michael got sick I wasn't sure if I could take anymore. And then I met her, and my heart broke just a little bit more than I thought possible.  
  
Her alias was obvious, I had taken her by surprise -is it wrong that I felt real pleasure in telling her I was Michael's girlfriend? Probably. Did I care? Considering everything, I think I was justified. But I knew she was the 'thing', the 'other', the 'ghost' in our relationship, who shared our bed and owned Michael's heart and soul.  
  
What's worse is that as much as I want to hate her, I know I will always be in her debt. She saved Michael. I don't know how -not even I could find out despite growing up knowing Deputy Director Devlin as 'Uncle'- but bone deep I know she did. And just when I thought that things couldn't get any worse, we all met in that restaurant.  
  
I don't think I can talk about that yet. It's hard playing clueless when all you want to do is scream at the unfairness of the whole situation. I don't think Michael realised she had seen us hugging, but I did, and I took comfort in her misery, since misery loves company.  
  
Weeks passed and I waited. No matter how hard I tried to kid myself, the end was very near, so when he told me it was all over I actually managed civility.  
  
So why am I back here in his house, watching them from his spare bedroom, doing a pretty damn good imitation of a stalker?  
  
Well.I was actually here to say goodbye to the place. I remember when Michael first bought the place; I had a lot of fun decorating it. Good times were spent here. I was happy here, mostly.  
  
But there's no place for me in his life now, if there ever was.  
  
I was about to leave when I heard the front door key, and as ridiculous as it sounds, I got scared. Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise that I decided to hide in Michael's extra bedroom. I know of Sydney Bristow's ass- kicking reputation, and I maybe stupid and pathetic and whiny but I'm not suicidal. So basically the bedroom was the only option.  
  
I shouldn't have watched them though.  
  
But I did.  
  
I watched him virtually carry her in, despite the fact they both knew she could probably kill him even in the current bedraggled state she was in.  
  
I watched them let go of the fears they had held so tightly to themselves.  
  
I watched them achieve a state of grace so many of us long for, simply because they were free to hold each other.  
  
I watched her cling to him, shaking with fear, with relief and with so many things only he and she could ever know.  
  
They clung to each other as if it was their last embrace. I think it will always be that way for them.  
  
And then I watched him tell her how he loved her, with everything that he was.  
  
But then I couldn't watch any more.  
  
*********************************************  
  
So here I am on my way out of the door, and out of Michael's life, and still I cannot bear to tear my eyes away from the sight on couch that stands between the freedom of outside and me.  
  
Even in sleep they unconsciously strive to be nearer each other. His hand moves to bring her closer against him, and she moves in to him closer even though they are breathing each others air.  
  
Two people, entwined hopelessly, to the point where you have trouble telling where one ends and the other begins.  
  
I move to leave, and as I turn to get one last look, I find myself looking into a pair of wary, somber, brown eyes.  
  
The moment is intense but strangely not uncomfortable. It stretches, and I only break it to nod my thanks to her.  
  
For saving Michael.  
  
For saving me, because as much as I love Michael, our relationship would have killed some part of us both, it already was.  
  
For showing what exactly real love was. Not store-bought, commercialized, red-heart love, but the quiet, selfless, kind, you only read about in legends and myths.  
  
She nods back.  
  
She understands.  
  
Only when I am outside the block of apartments do I realise, I'm crying. These tears taste sweet. They are not shed over bitterness, frustration, or pain. They are tears of overwhelming emotion. And I feel no desire to try and stop them. It is a relief, they are a release and they cleanse, even as they leave track marks on my face.  
  
The festering pain, I've grown so used to is washed away.  
  
I am re-shaped.  
  
I am grateful.  
  
End 1/1 


End file.
